Michael Connelly - Angels Flight

Irving’s eyes dropped and Bosch knew he was looking down at the protest march.

“The city’s held together…”

He didn’t finish. Bosch knew what he was thinking. That those people down on the sidewalks were expecting news of charges being filed – against a cop.

“Where are we with Detective Sheehan?” Irving asked.

Lindell looked at his watch.

“We’ve been talking to him for six hours now. When I left he had yet to say a single self-incriminating word in regard to the murder of Howard Elias.”

“He previously threatened the victim in the manner in which the victim was killed.”

“That was a long time ago. Plus, it was said in public, in front of witnesses. It’s been my experience that people who make threats like that usually don’t carry them out. They are blowing off steam most of the time.”

Irving nodded, his face still to the window.

“What about ballistics?” he asked.

“Nothing yet. The autopsy on Elias was supposed to start this afternoon. I sent Detective Chastain over. They’ll dig the slugs out and he’ll take them over to your firearms people. It will take too long to send them to my people in Washington. But remember, Chief, Sheehan volunteered his gun. He said, ‘Do the ballistics.’ Yes, he carries a nine but I kinda think he wouldn’t have offered the gun if he didn’t know the gun wouldn’t match the bullets.”

“And his home?”

“We searched it top to bottom – again, with his permission. Nothing. No other weapons, no hate notes about Elias, nothing.”

“Alibi?”

“Only place he’s hurting. He was home alone Friday night.”

“What about his wife?” Bosch asked.

“The wife and kids were up in Bakersfield,” Lindell said. “Apparently they’ve been up there a good long time.”

It was one more surprise about Sheehan. Bosch wondered why Sheehan hadn’t mentioned it when Bosch had asked about his family.

Irving remained silent and Lindell continued.

“I guess what I’m saying is that we can hold him and wait till tomorrow when we’ve got the ballistics report to clear him. Or we can hop on Harry’s wagon and kick him loose now. But we keep him overnight and the expectations out on the street will just rise that much further…”

“And if we release him without explanation we could touch off a riot,” Irving said.

Irving continued to stare at the window, brooding. This time Lindell waited.

“Kick him loose at six,” Irving finally said. “At the five o’clock briefing I will say he is being released pending further investigation. I can hear the howls already from Preston Tuggins and his people.”

“That’s not good enough, Chief,” Bosch said. “You have to say he’s clear. ‘Pending further investigation’? You might as well say we think he did it but we don’t have the evidence to charge him yet.”

Irving wheeled from the window and looked at Bosch. “Do not dare to tell me what is good enough, Detective. You do your job and I will do mine. Speaking of which, the briefing is in an hour. I want your two partners there for it. I am not going to stand up there with a bunch of white faces behind me and say we are letting a white cop go pending further investigation. I want your people there this time. And absolutely no excuse will be acceptable.”

“They’ll be there.”

“Good. Now let’s talk about what we will say to the media about the direction the investigation is heading in.”

The press conference was short. This time there was no sign of the chief of police. It was left to Irving to explain that the investigation was continuing and widening. He also said that the police officer who had been interviewed for several hours was being released. This brought an immediate chorus of shouted questions from the reporters. Irving raised his hands as if the action might in some way control the crowd. He was wrong.

“We are not going to turn this into a shouting match,” he barked. “I will take a handful of questions and that is it. We have an investigation to get back to. We – ”

“What do you mean by released, Chief?” Harvey Button called out. “Are you saying he has been cleared or you just don’t have evidence to hold him?”

Irving looked at Button for a moment before answering.

“What I am saying is that the investigation is now moving into other areas.”

“Then Detective Sheehan has been cleared, correct?”

“I am not getting into naming people we talk to.”

“Chief, we all know the name. Why can’t you answer the question?”

Bosch thought it was amusing in a cynical sort of way to watch this exchange because Lindell had convinced him it was Irving who had first leaked Frankie Sheehan’s name to the media. Now the deputy chief was trying to act insulted that it was out there.

“All I am saying is that the police officer we have talked to provided satisfactory answers at this time. He is going home and that is all I am – ”

“What other directions is the investigation going in?” another reporter called out.

“I cannot get into detail,” Irving said. “Suffice it to say we will be turning over every stone.”

“Can we ask the FBI agent questions?”

Irving glanced at Lindell, who was standing at the rear of the stage next to Bosch, Edgar and Rider. He then looked back at the crowd of lights, cameras and reporters.

“The FBI and the LAPD have decided this will best be handled by funneling information through the police department. If you have a question, ask me.”

“Are other cops being questioned?” Button called out.

Irving had to think again to make sure he put the right words in the right order.

“Yes, police officers are being questioned in a routine manner. At this point there are no police officers that we would classify as suspects.”

“Then you are saying Sheehan is not a suspect.”

Button got him. Irving knew it. He had talked himself into a logic corner. But he took the easy, if not disingenuous, way out.

“No comment.”

“Chief,” Button continued, above the din of other reporters, “the murders are almost forty-eight hours old. Are you saying there are no solid suspects at this time?”

“We’re not going to get into what suspects there may or may not be. Next.”

Irving quickly pointed to another reporter in order to steer things away from Button. The questioning went on for another ten minutes. At one point Bosch looked over at Rider and she gave him a look that said, What are we doing here? And Bosch returned a look that answered, We are wasting our time.

When it was finally over, Bosch huddled on the stage with Edgar and Rider. They had arrived from Hollywood station just as the press conference had begun and he hadn’t had time to talk to them.

“So where are we on the search warrants?” he asked.

“Almost done,” Edgar said. “It didn’t help that we had to come down here for the dog and pony show.”

“I know.”

“Harry, I thought you were going to steer us clear of this stuff,” Rider said.

“I know. It was selfish. Frankie Sheehan is a friend. What they did to him, leaking his name like that, was bullshit. I was hoping that having you two here might add some credibility to the announcement that he was being let go.”

“So you used us the way Irving wanted to yesterday,” she said. “You wouldn’t let him do it but it was okay for yourself.”

Bosch studied her face. He could tell she was genuinely angry at being used in such a way. Bosch knew that it was a betrayal. A small one in his mind, but a betrayal just the same.

“Look, Kiz, we can talk about this later. But like I said, Frankie’s a friend. He’s now your friend for this. And that could be valuable someday.”